


Forgetting to Breathe

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Losing, M/M, Sherlock needs John, The wedding, breathing is important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: And in the end, he lost him anyway.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	Forgetting to Breathe

He held the egotistical belief that John Watson would continue to grieve. Live alone. Making no commitments.

Mycroft cautioned him, in his stolid way, regarding his belief.  
But in his pretentiousness, he believed that Johns' reality rotated around him. Such was the assumption. It was John. And John understood Sherlock as no one else had.

* * *

It was no shock to discover him with a woman! However, to learn he was engaged? That was a blow to Sherlock's innermost self.

* * *

John was the reason he had to embark on the crucial mission to foreign countries. The reason he slept in tents, on the hard, wet ground, didn't eat for days, ran through jungles barefoot, chased by howling dogs and men with rifles. Persevered through all varieties of privation.  
He supported himself psychologically by retaining, consistently at the forefront, an image of the doctor. Clutching at recollections of evenings, tranquil evenings by the fireplace, racing breathlessly within the streets of London pursuing perpetrators.

* * *

John has picked an alternate life, and his happiness is most dominant. If the doctor professes to need Mary for his significant other and if it means a wedding, then Sherlock resolves to create a perfect soiree. 

Setting aside his own emotions.

* * *

If there was something he needed to say to redirect the approaching marriage, some essential awareness that nudged at him, that was nearly at the edge of being spoken; he suppressed it.  
John did not demonstrate by word or location that he preferred his company anymore.

John had sat at the kitchen table at the flat and invited Sherlock to be his best man. Why he didn't request Mike or Greg remained a puzzle.

Sherlock was prepared to do all to provide for John.  
The doctor who stepped into his life from the first encounter at Bart's Hospital and effectively grew to be an indispensable component of Sherlock.  
He could not err in Doctor John Watsons' perception. If he did, John was, as always, prepared to rage at him, to uncover his deficiencies. And attempt to rectify them.

* * *

It was disagreeable enough to have to attend the service. Tolerably acceptable to have composed the first tune the couple danced to. Scarcely capable of observing John rapturously joyful. Intoxicated with another other than him.

* * *

He seated the violin on the music stand and delicately closed the music sheet. A keepsake for them. Tossing his dark blue coat about him, as though to buffer him from the celebration that isn't his, he strolls out.

* * *

Sitting on a park bench, his hands tucked into his coat pockets he's fallen into a dark abyss. Where to run and whatever to do to occupy one's time?  
Home? What is the flat without John, devoid of his blogger? Denied of the man who confounded him by associating with him, by fighting the temptation to strike him for his improprieties.

* * *

A police officer passes by him, granting him a cursory examination. He combats the notion of curling up on the metal bench to slumber. Resists the thinking of walking the several streets down to discover solace in a needle.  
Rather, he transports himself to his flat. His exceptionally vacant flat.

* * *

He fills the open door of Johns's bedroom. Venturing across the threshold, Sherlock eyes the doctors' dresser, his rejected books lying on top. Square cornered sheets, military-style that make up the bed.  
As of tonight Johns remaining garments still lay strewn on his desk chair.  
He slides open the dresser drawer and discovers the baby blue jumper neatly folded. Did John not take it on purpose?  
Sherlock had bought it last Christmas, recognizing he couldn't envision anything more fulfilling than to see John in it. It enhances the blue of Johns's eyes.  
At the time he didn't perceive it as a sentiment.

Putting the cashmere to his nose, he takes a long, deep breath. It's the recognizable John smell. A woody aroma which produces a sigh to his lips.  
Disposing of his coat, kicking off his shoes, he crawls into Johns bed, folds the jumper around his neck, and discovers tears flowing over his face and the pillow.  
"John, John," rocking to and fro, mouthing his cries within the sweater.

He had quit any pretense of all that he was to ensure John's security, to maintain their friendship, their bond.  
He was, in his conceit, exorbitantly sure about Johns' steadfastness, his commitment.

He was mistaken.

He was beyond the point of no return. He has now lost everything.  
He can't perceive how to live, doesn't understand how he'll cope without his John.  
He bellows into the void; he whimpers, he screams, he moans, he cries.  
He shouts-- until he forgets to breathe.


End file.
